


even his worst

by EssayOfThoughts



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Masturbation, Post-Episode: c01e025 Crimson Diplomacy, Trauma, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 20:39:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19838110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EssayOfThoughts/pseuds/EssayOfThoughts
Summary: He runs his hand over the door as he pushes it open. Even with how little they’ve all spent here, he’s worn a little patch of the door smoother and shinier with how much time he spends behind it. It’s a reminder, too. Vox Machina want him with them. He’d hoped and he’d prayed, and Vox Machina had come for him. Vox Machina has made space for him, and accepted even his worst parts.Do you want them dead?Grog had asked.He doesn’t know. But whether he does or not, he knows Vox Machina is with him.You don’t have to get involved,he’d said. Tried to offer them an out. No reason for them all to fall with him.Oh,said Vex.We aresoinvolved.





	even his worst

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Chamerion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chamerion/gifts).



> Dedicated to Chamerion, without whom this would never have been written.

Percy groans into a pillow. Doesn’t let the sound escape. Grips himself in one certain hand, tugs, once, twice more. 

He’s shaking, and it’s not just due to that.

When he finishes, he chokes the noise in his throat. The pillow he’s pressed his face to, the covers drawn up over his head, the door to his room, shut and locked, all of these ensure a layer more of safety. Still, he doesn’t dare let sound escape.

He reaches backwards, finds the washcloth he knows he left within reach. Wipes himself off, tosses the cloth with blind precision. Hears the soft splash as it lands in the washbowl.

He’s shaking, still. Breathing hard. When he closes his eyes, memories are chasing around the edge of his brain. That’s all right. That was half of why he did this.

He resecures his covers. Pushes his face into the pillow against the wall. He almost can’t breathe with the pressure, but that’s all right too. With the sheets wrapped close around him, the blankets drawn up over his head, the air gets muggy fast. That’s part of the point. Same as the heat of the forge in his workshop, as the way Bad News bucks against his shoulder and the List in his hands. A jolt of pain, the sense of discomfort.

He’s here. He’s alive. It’s not then. It’s not just after. He has himself, as whole as he can be. 

He presses his face to the pillow and closes his eyes. 

His shoulders shake. He’s half-hoped before, that one day when he shakes one of Vox Machina will place a hand on his shoulder and wait until he stops. He knows, if he lets himself show this around them - fear, uncertainty, the emotions that bubble up and go out of control - they just might.

He knows not to hope, though, and he doesn’t want company right now. After everything that has happened today - the Briarwoods, the carriage-boy, the Broker - he needs space. He needs to find a way to let everything out or keep it locked in on his own. Find a way to take the exhilaration of confrontation, the despair of dashed hopes, the rage at others and himself and force it all to make some kind of sense. He can’t do that with the others around. 

His door is locked and bolted by his own hand, no matter what he might half-hope. 

Sleep, he knows, will not come easy.

* * *

He wakes, and knows it’s from a nightmare. He’s trembling, tiny muscle tremors all over. Between his legs he’s half-hard but that’s probably just because it’s morning. His jaw wants to shake and chatter, even though it’s far from cold. Instead, with the blankets over his head and pulled taut over his shoulders, it’s stifling.

He breathes in the warmth, lets himself feel the soft sensation of the blankets and sheets on his skin. Presses his forehead into the pillow against the wall. The stuffing has worn thin in the night, even though the rest of his body has barely moved - makes sense, when he’d basically restrained himself with bed linens tucked tight to the mattress. He can feel the stone wall through it, when he presses hard. Through the thin cloth it’s cold. The contrast to the heat of his blanket-cavern is soothing. When he rolls his lip between his teeth to still his jaw from shaking the pain is sharp and calming. 

He’s here. He’s alive. It’s not then. 

He knows what the tremors mean, after all, but there’s no Anna Ripley standing over him. 

He rolls his lip between his teeth again. He can feel the skin is a little worn, chapped. He needs to get some more beeswax salve at some point; maybe ask Keyleth. He knows if he bites too hard, worries at the loose pieces of skin, he’ll make himself bleed.

Probably best he doesn’t do that, to be honest.

He sighs. Rolls his shoulders and shoves back the blankets over his head. The cold air of his room hits like a slap to the face. There’s no light in the hall outside - if it’s too early or too late, he doesn’t know. Doesn’t matter too much, in the end. He slides his glasses up his nose, finds the lamp by the side of his bed and, with careful fingers in the dark, he lights it. 

The heat licking against his palm is a comfort. So’s the warmth when he presses that palm to his face. He runs fingers through his hair - white now, and white forever more. He knows the stories. Shock turns your hair white.

There’s not much more shocking than what he’s seen, and he digs his fingers into his scalp a moment to anchor himself. Blunt nails into skin and the shock of pain makes him gasp. He pulls himself up. Pulls himself upright. Makes sure he hasn’t scratched his face - the gods only know what the others would think if they could see the scratches he leaves on himself. There’s a reason he keeps it to his scalp.

Around him his room is a wreck. Notebooks, blueprints. The spare blankets from his cupboard, sticks of charcoal and even a pot of ink, spilled in a pool under the table. He can’t make himself regret the mess. Better to let the anger and despair out before dealing with everything else.

He pulls on clothes. Underthings, trousers, socks. Shirt, and over it a jerkin, and then his coat. Even if it’s all going to come off in the workshop he’d still rather not wander around exposed. He loves Vox Machina, and trusts them, but…

His head shakes-judders-jerks, and he pulls his mask over his head. Not on, no, but it's staying with him, today. 

As ever, the List rests by his bed, Bad News by the door. 

As ever, he picks them up.

* * *

The halls are dark, and there’s no one out. Before he leaves his room he blows his lamp out - he knows Greyskull in the dark, and it's one of the few dark places that holds no fears for him. Besides, at the very edges, fading moonlight streams in the arrow slits, and likely dawnlight on the other side of the keep. It can’t be far from morning, unless his internal clock is out.

Given last night, given the nightmares, there’s a good chance of that.

Percy doesn’t care. Workshop it is.

Down the corridor, down a flight of stairs. Down a hallway, through the armoury. He barely glances at the cell, though he knows what it holds. 

His workshop waits for him.

He runs his hand over the door as he pushes it open. Even with how little they’ve all spent here, he’s worn a little patch of the door smoother and shinier with how much time he spends behind it. It’s a reminder, too. Vox Machina want him with them. He’d hoped and he’d prayed, and Vox Machina had come for him. Vox Machina has made space for him, and accepted even his worst parts.

 _Do you want them dead?_ Grog had asked.

He doesn’t know. But whether he does or not, he knows Vox Machina is with him. _You don’t have to get involved,_ he’d said. Tried to offer them an out. No reason for them all to fall with him.

 _Oh,_ said Vex. _We are_ so _involved._

He knows better, at this point, than to argue with Vox Machina when they look at him with that certainty. The anger burning in their eyes, not at him but for him… he knows they have chosen him and his side, and will choose him until he gives them reason not to.

After what happened to Vax, he thinks, they may have reason not to. After what he’d screamed, thoughtless and half undone by failure, at the Broker, they may have reason not to.

After he’d shot three fingers off a boy barely older than he’d been when the Briarwoods had come, they have reason not to.

He does not look down the hall to the cell, and shuts the door. The bolt when it slides over is a soft and comforting noise.

He loves Vox Machina. He trusts them. But he always makes sure his workshop door is bolted before he starts to prepare. Coat off, and hung on a peg. Bad News beside it, but the List stays strapped to his leg. Jerkin and mask come off too, pulled over his head one after the other. Shirt sleeves rolled up all the way to his shoulders. The sensation of the Slayer’s Take brand still throws him for a moment, too alike to the scar just below his shoulder-blade. It’s shape is different though and it was a reward and not a punishment. He smooths his fingers over it, reminds himself that it’s something else entirely, before pulling his forge apron on.

There’s a twinge in his back - he probably pulled something in his fitful sleep - but he stretches his arms out, feels everything click into place like the bolt and barrels of his guns. 

He closes his eyes. Opens them. He wants, somewhere deep inside, to scream. It's easy to take a hammer in one hand.

The forge has gone low in the night, but it still glows with heat. He pushes the bellows, feeds it gusts of wind, a handful of coal, two logs, and then a third.

When he stands back to pick up tongs and crucible, the heat splashes over bare skin.

His workshop is many things. Right now, memories still chasing around his mind from last night, it dredges up more. He doesn’t care. He knows these memories, the ones the workshop brings. He chooses them, each time he comes down here. They give him purpose. Anger. Rage. They give him strength to strike clear and true each time he makes some new piece of metal into what he wants of it. 

Sometimes it’s too much. Maybe it will be today. He doesn’t know. Doesn’t care. He has too much to get done first. He doesn’t know if Vox Machina will help him now. He can hope - he can always hope, but hope will not help - but he does not _know._ Not after Vax, not after the carriage-boy, not after the Broker. He’s let them down, got them hurt. He doesn’t expect Vex to forgive him her brother being hurt. Doesn’t expect them to want to see him after all the trouble he has caused. Doesn’t much expect Keyleth to want to be his friend after he’s maimed a boy.

He can’t rely on their help. 

In the burning heat of the forge, Percy’s hand finds the metal of the List. Below the height of the heat, it’s cold. He runs a finger over the chambers, over the names etched there. He can tell just from feel which ones they are. 

Lord Briarwood. Lady Briarwood. Dr. Ripley.

Maybe the others will come to talk to him. Maybe they won’t. But they’ve been hurt by this, and for all their promises they have every reason to want out. He doesn’t know, now, if they still side with him. He trusts them. He loves them. He believes that they will get him where he needs to go.

But he can’t count on their help, not with what happened to Vax, with the Broker, not with the carriage-boy he maimed less than a hundred feet away. 

He pushes the bellows. The forge flares. 

The only person he can count on is himself.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> This fic came about from a few things, most particularly a set of thoughts I had about how Percy responded going down to Osysa's ziggurat in the dark with the knowledge he was going to be branded (that is to say, quiet panic) and yet how he chooses to spend time in his workshop (dark, underground, risk of burning), and it suggested to me that Percy might use his workshop as a means to control his access to his trauma - uncomfortable at times, but chosen and under his control and his direction.
> 
> Because, at his heart, he is Percy Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms de Rolo.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this, and please leave comments!


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